"Well, Miss Scudder," said Miss Prissy, after mature investigation,
"here's a broad hem, not cut at all on the edge, as I see, and that
might be turned down, and so cut off the worn spot up by the waist,--and
then, if it is turned, it will look every bit and grain as well as a new
silk;--I'll sit right down now and go to ripping. I put my ripping-knife
into my pocket when I put on this dress to go to prayer-meeting,
because, says I to myself, there'll be something to do at Miss Scudder's
to-night. You just get an iron to the fire, and we'll have it all ripped
and pressed out before dark."

Miss Prissy seated herself at the open window, as cheery as a fresh
apple-blossom, and began busily plying her knife, looking at the garment
she was ripping with an astute air, as if she were about to circumvent
it into being a new dress by some surprising act of legerdemain. Mrs.
Scudder walked to the looking-glass and began changing her bonnet cap
for a tea-table one.

Miss Prissy, after a while, commenced in a mysterious tone.

"Miss Scudder, I know folks like me shouldn't have their eyes open too
wide, but then I can't help noticing some things. Did you see the
Doctor's face when we was talking to him about Mary? Why, he colored all
up and the tears came into his eyes. It's my belief that that blessed
man worships the ground she treads on. I don't mean _worships_,
either,--'cause that would be wicked, and he's too good a man to make a
graven image of anything,--but it's clear to see that there a'n't
anybody in the world like Mary to him. I always did think so; but I used
to think Mary was such a little poppet--that she'd do better for--Well,
you know, I thought about some younger man;--but, laws, now I see how